


I Tend To Be

by bowyer



Series: The Phrases That Pay; Prompt Fills. [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Other, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowyer/pseuds/bowyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is unsure of where he stands, and where he wants to be.</p>
<p>Luckily, Sigrun has a solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Tend To Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mnemosyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/gifts).



> For packingupmydinosaurs asked for _your zevran/cousland/fenris trio, offer me._ It... tenuously links?
> 
> For m!Cousland (Dickon), imagine [ Matt Heafy](http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/_/615111/Matt+Heafy.jpg) or Richard III. Whichever floats your boat! (I'd provide _actual_ pictures, but my computer is playing at dead right now)
> 
> I might have... accidentally killed Fenris in my only DA2 playthrough. I defended myself to my gf by claiming that Zevran had picked him up and taken him to Vigil's Keep, and so we've added that to our headcanon.

“No, you don't _get_ it.”

 

They are both less than sober, curled up in a hidden nook somewhere in Vigil's Keep. Fenris has been here for several months now, has watched his scars turn from red to pink, but still can't always find his way around, nor tell human from human.

 

He knows Sigrun, though. She had walked up to him three days after he was finally allowed out of bed, on shaking legs, touched one of the veins that trails up the inside of his arm and gone “ _I like these_.”

 

When Fenris had responded, tired and in pain, with “ _I didn't want them_ ”, she had looked at him for a beat, nodded and gone “ _me either_.”

 

And that was that.

 

“What don't I get?” he asks, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

 

“The Commander,” she tilts her head back and presses her cheek against his bicep with a high pitched hum. “And Zev. You don't _get_ it.”

 

“Which part?” he tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice and takes another swig of the whiskey they've been supping on for most of the evening. “I am there when they want me.”

 

Sigrun groans in frustration and headbutts his arm, “No!”

 

“Well what _do_ you mean?” he scoots closer to the wall, trying to evade the drunk dwarf and her heavy head. 

 

“You don't...” she holds out her hands in front of her and makes like she's strangling an invisible person. It may well be him, although Fenris doesn't think she's drunk enough to start hallucinating quite yet. “ _Get_ it.”

 

“That has been established, dwarf.”

 

“You're not listening to me, stupid shiny elf,” she huffs, giggling when Fenris turns to her with a raised eyebrow. “Now gimme.” 

 

Against his better judgement, he hands her the bottle, and gestures for her to go on.

 

He has been avoiding Dickon and Zevran, as of late. He supposes that it must not have gone completely unnoticed. But they are wrapped up in themselves, as they were before Fenris became a distraction for them both.

 

“Dickon's not like that,” Sigrun mumbles, and he is left wondering if he has spoken anything out loud.

 

“Like what?” he says, too sharply for someone he considers a friend, but Sigrun doesn't appear to mind. She's too busy rubbing her face against his arm with another hum.

 

“Like _that_ ,” she reaches out to poke his face. Fenris jerks his head back slightly. He doesn't trust her not to accidentally stick a finger in his eye. “I know you surfacers have weird thoughts on marriage and stuff, but –”

 

“It's not weird,” he interrupts, affronted on behalf of everyone that lives up on the surface.

 

“Yeah it is. If it isn't broke...” she trails off with a shrug, and he can't tell whether she's leaving the sentence for him to finish or she's just forgotten it. “He likes you. They both do. I bet they think you're pretty.”

 

“I am not _pretty_.”

 

“Yes you are,” Sigrun pats his eyebrow with affection. “Very pretty. You've got pretty eyes.”

 

He grunts and lifts her hand off his face, “If you say so.”

 

“I _do_ ,” she nods. “So stop avoiding them. You're making him sad.”

 

“I'm not –”

 

Sigrun hiccups and hugs the bottle of whiskey closer. “You are. And it's making you all sad. I know you can't give them a baby, but I don't think Zevran should be allowed near babies, so that's ok.”

 

Fenris frowns, struck by the mental image of himself pregnant. He touches his stomach to reassure himself that he's not.

 

“ _Anyway_ ,” she nudges his shoulder. When did Fenris become friends with such a tactile dwarf? It was clearly a mistake. “Stop brooding like a... broody thing. Go and snuggle with them. In public would be nice too. You've got pretty cheekbones and so does Zevran.”

 

“You've had too much to drink,” he decides, attempting to claw the whiskey out of her iron grip. “And I've definitely not had enough.”

 

“I've only seen Dickon kiss three people,” the dwarf continues as though he hadn't spoken. “So he must really like you.”

 

Him, Zevran. Fenris' frown deepens, “Who's the third?”

 

“Anders,” she says around the mouth of the bottle. “Stones, we're all out. Got any more?”

 

“You don't – _the mage_?”

 

Sigrun tips the bottle upside down with a mournful look, “Not as good as ale but does the job.”

 

“When did Dickon kiss _the mage_?”

 

“Probably a bit more flammable though.”

 

“ _Sigrun_.”

 

“We were drunk,” she puts the bottle to one side with a desolate sigh. “But he only did it once, and didn't do it again, even though Zevran kept asking him to. So you're probably safe there. That and the whole abomination thing. Kinda creepy, right?”

 

Fenris is too perturbed to respond. _Dickon kissed the mage?_

 

“An elf and a dwarf break into the cellars,” a new voice enters the conversation. Speak of the devil; Dickon leans against the doorway, his arms folded. He's not wearing his armour, but he still has his waraxe strapped over shoulder. Fenris finds his paranoia comforting. “Sounds like the beginning of a terrible joke.”

 

“Probably one of Anders',” Sigrun says cheerfully. “Hello Commander.”

 

“Hello Sigrun,” he takes a few steps into the room. “Fenris.”

 

He nods in acknowledgement, still not sure what to do with his new information.

 

“We're all out of whiskey,” his friend tells Dickon. “Otherwise I'd offer you some.”

 

“I think you've had plenty,” Dickon offers a hand to help Sigrun, pulling her up with little semblance of effort. “Considering you're on tunnels tomorrow morning. And no swapping with Nate, he just got off.”

 

“I'll swap with Oghren then,” she pats his shoulder. “Take this.” From nowhere, she spirits up a bottle of wine. Fenris would much rather have been drinking wine than whiskey, _where_ has she been hiding it? “And take him,” she jerks her head towards Fenris, “and go to bed. All three of you. Maybe draw some pictures too.”

 

“Excellent advice, as always,” the Warden-Commander chuckles. “Now go and sleep off your whiskey.”

 

Sigrun doesn't _quite_ skip off, but it's a near thing. He wants to shout after her as soon as she's gone – _come back, all is forgiven, don't leave me alone with him!_ – but it's too late, and Fenris isn't a fan of asking for help or hiding behind people. He's not a mage.

 

“Need any help?” Dickon asks, his hand hovering uncertainly in front of him. “I wasn't planning on listening to her, don't –”

 

Dickon's hands are always warm, and now is no exception. Calloused like someone who's been trained to hold weapons since he could walk. Strong, too. Fenris likes his hands.

 

“I didn't know she had wine,” he huffs, reluctant to let go of the hand he'd grasped to pull himself up. “I prefer wine.”

 

“Never trust dwarves that come bearing liquor,” Dickon squeezes his hand. “Hard lesson to learn. Warden-Commanders, however...” he holds out the bottle of wine. “You'll appreciate it more than me, I'm sure.”

 

“Hmm,” Fenris presses closer to Dickon. He's warm, and he's carrying wine, those are good enough reasons for him. “This is a miserable place.”

 

“You don't... have to stay,” Dickon starts walking carefully, an arm slid around Fenris to keep him upright. “You're not a Warden, we won't chase after you.”

 

“You didn't chase after the mage.”

 

“Are _you_ possessed by a spirit who likes lyrium?” the human inspects him. “Actually, Justice probably would like you. It would be like taking lyrium constantly. I'd like to see a lyrium-drunk spirit.”

 

Fenris shakes his head with a growl.

 

“I'm sorry, that was... careless,” they stop in the hallway. “Where... am I taking you?” Dickon picks his words carefully, looking directly into Fenris' face for answers.

 

He lifts his head from Dickon's shoulder and thinks, “Is Zevran asleep?”

 

“He... might be. I'm not sure. He tends to wake up when I come in anyway.”

 

“He takes up a lot of the bed.”

 

Dickon's chuckle is warm, and it reverberates through Fenris. He thinks briefly back to Hawke and Varric, and their happy-go-lucky ways, but doesn't dwell on it. “He does, for such a small elf.”

 

“Would there be room?” Fenris says before he can take it back. “For all three of us.”

 

Dickon turns to look at him, his stoic face cracking into a brighter smile than Fenris anticipated. “I can kick him out, if needs be.” But he's not serious about it, Fenris doesn't think.

 

(There will _probably_ be enough room He's not that big, after all.)

 

There's no need for it anyway, because Zevran rolls over when they open the door. “I thought I heard footsteps,” he smiles, pushing himself up in the bed. “Did you bring us a present, mi amor?”

 

“I rescued him from Sigrun,” Dickon grins, giving Fenris the tiniest push towards the bed. He unhooks his axe from his shoulders and slots it into the weapons rack that him and Zevran share – Fenris can see several long daggers resting there, a comforting observation – before pulling his soft tunic over his head.

 

Fenris is too tired, too drunk, too weary. He nearly falls onto the bed, fumbling at his waist to tug off the knife he keeps there just in case.

 

“He smells like the atrium of an Antivan whorehouse,” Zevran declares delightedly, rolling over to bury his face in Fenris' neck.

 

He falls asleep to Dickon laughing. 


End file.
